Aug 212011
 
The blue men march, march, march.
The green is gone, and brown remains.

Is there a hupping repetition only
In this becoming mud, oozy-oily?

Each thing repeated, as if bereft,
As if tearing our hair alone was left us.

The muds shift, closing oily over
The puddles of our tread, and over

Our faces on that final, fatal day.

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